


A Good Soldier

by NotASpaceAlien



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, sad fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 05:00:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5321396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotASpaceAlien/pseuds/NotASpaceAlien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one time Crowley decides he needn't be paranoid backfires horrifically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> warning this is very sad
> 
> on tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/134272829145/whispers-i-want-the-angst

If he could have just left a note, then none of this would  
have happened.  If he had just had three  
minutes to scribble something, anything, down on a piece of paper—

Crowley was smart.  He would have figured it out, and would have been prepared, and would have avoided this.  All he would have needed was anything—written on a napkin, or scrawled on the wall in Sharpie even—that said “ _Crowley, gone to Heaven, Aziraphale_ ” and he would have been prepared.  But there had been nothing, and Aziraphale felt like he was being slowly torn apart thinking about it.

* * *

Aziraphale dropped his teacup as it happened, the porcelain shattering a split second after he disappeared.

He could see nothing except vague shapes amid dim light, like clouds moving about blocking a full moon, but he knew where he was.  Only one place had the authority to remove him so suddenly.

He straightened up, adjusted his bowtie, squared his shoulders.  “Hello?”

“I trust you know why you have been summoned?” echoed a vague voice from somewhere, and Aziraphale did not know whether to be concerned about not facing a corporeal angel.  It was a heavenly voice, in the sense that it was from Heaven, not that it was pleasant.

“Erm…” said Aziraphale. He had suspicions, of course:  I misbehaved to break free from Heaven and stop the plans for the apocalypse, I talked back to the Metatron, I stood hand in hand with a demon…

He did not say any of these things.  Even he knew when he would get in trouble for such talk.  Instead, he said, “I’m afraid not.”

“A pity,” said the voice. “We would have thought it was obvious. We shall state it plainly, then: We need to remind you of something, Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.” 

“What’s that?” said Aziraphale, horrified to notice he was sweating.

“Why, of your mission, of course,” purred the sourceless voice.  “Of how to be a good solider.”

* * *

Crowley stopped to get a bottle of wine on the way over.  He had been away on a trip, and intended to spend the whole night with Aziraphale.

That was one thing he liked about how their relationship had…changed after the Almostpocalypse. It was _progressing_ , and in quite a nice direction.

“Aziraphale,” he said, opening the door to the shop, the bell clanging.  “I’m here.”  The shop was technically closed, but nothing was truly closed to Crowley when he set his mind to it.

“Crowley!” called the angel’s voice from the back room.  “Come in, come in, I’m glad you’re finally here.  I’ve been waiting for you.”

He felt his heart swell at that, but forced his expression to remain neutral as he waded through stacks of manuscripts to squeeze past the counter and access the back room.  The angel was there, a book abandoned on an end table as he stood and moved towards the new arrival.  “Hello,” he said, smiling widely.

“Hello, angel,” said Crowley, dropping his jacket onto a chair, and returning the smile.  “I’ve brought some— _ooh!_ ”

Crowley made a noise of surprise as Aziraphale swept him up, holding him bridal-style.  “Set that down on the table there.”  

Crowley stretched out from the nest of Aziraphale’s arms to set the wine on the end table carefully. “Um,” said Crowley, unsure of what to say.   _This_ was…progressing a bit faster than he had anticipated.  Not that he minded…  but it caught him off guard.

Aziraphale turned, and Crowley pulled his legs in so they didn’t knock on the doorframe as they passed it.  “Let’s go upstairs, shall we?”

“Up-upstairs?” spluttered Crowley, who knew that the upstairs of Aziraphale’s shop contained exactly one disused bedroom, and nothing more.

They were at the bottom of the creaky wooden stairs.  “Of course.”

“Aziraphale, are you sure?” He hadn’t thought the _angel_ would be the one to initiate anything like this.

“Of course,” said Aziraphale.  “I’ve already got it set up for the two of us.”

The bottommost step groaned under their weight as they started up.  “Angel, this seems awfully fast, don’t you think?” said Crowley, trying to push down the unease welling up from inside him, which was mounting more and more urgently with each step they climbed.

“Of course not,” said Aziraphale, giving him a small squeeze.

Crowley swallowed, unsure of what to say as the bedroom came closer and closer, because he _had_ wanted this, right?  Why did he feel so nervous?

“Crowley, why don’t you open the door?  My hands are…full.”

Crowley hugged his arms more tightly around Aziraphale’s shoulders.   _Why_ was he feeling so uneasy? There was _something_ wrong, here…  Right?

“Crowley?”

“Hm?”

“Just relax.”

He loosened his grip. What was he thinking?  This was _Aziraphale_ they were talking about here.  Aziraphale, his clueless, precious angel.  It was probably something stupid, that Crowley had been thinking dirtier than his companion again, and that Aziraphale had something innocent on the other side of the door, and that as soon as Crowley saw it he would have a good laugh and say, “Oh, _that’s_ what you meant, angel, you had me going there—”  And Aziraphale would whack him and tell him to keep impure thoughts out of his mind, for Heaven’s sake.

This was _Aziraphale._  Demons were not supposed to trust anyone, but—he did.  He trusted Aziraphale.  He was the only being, of any kind, in the universe, in whose hands he would put his life. _His_ angel was holding him in his arms.  What could possibly happen to him?

He reached down, turned the knob.

The room beyond was dark, faint light from between the slats of the blinds casting shadows on unfamiliar shapes, and Aziraphale turned sideways so they would fit through the door.

Crowley could hear Aziraphale bump the door shut with his hip, plunging the room back into near darkness. “Get the light, would you?” said the prim voice from beside him, and he reached out, feeling blindly along the wall, until he found the switch, and flicked it on.

The room flooded with light, illuminating a room covered floor to ceiling with anti-demon sigils and runes, painted crudely in white spray paint, and in the center, at the focal point of their power, was a single chair, rope and leather belts piled up next to it.

It was exactly the setup for an exorcism, a _real_ exorcism, not the kind someone like Shadwell could perform, and an electric, primal fear surged through Crowley.  He immediately began to thrash and push to break free from Aziraphale’s arms, but the angel tightened his grip to hold him until they were well into the room, and then slammed him into the ground, kneeling on his back and pinning his arms behind him.

“Aziraphale, wait!” said Crowley as he felt belts cinching his forearms together behind him. “Angel, is—is this some sort of j-joke?”

He was hauled upwards, and he tried desperately to fight not to be put into that chair, but the sigils in the room were draining his powers, and the more he struggled, the more he felt them pulling at him, suffocating, like threads of a spider’s web tightening around him.

“Hold on,” said Crowley, as Aziraphale secured his ankles to the legs of the chair. “Angel—wait—whatever—whatever this is about, we can talk about it, can’t we?  You don’t have to do _this._ ” He squirmed in the chair, trying to cast about for some looseness in the bonds, but he was securely fastened, and _all_ the sigils were pointing at him now, and it was already making him feel dizzy, and he could _not_ pass out right now.  “We can just talk about it—that’s what we’ve always done, isn’t it? Talked it over?  Nothing ever like _this._ ”

“Yes, I suppose that was the problem, wasn’t it?” said Aziraphale, turning on the demon.  “This will be easier if you just relax.”

“Aziraphale, _what—_ ” began Crowley, but he stopped when he saw the look in the angel’s eye, and that’s when he _really_ began to panic, because oh _Somebody_ , this was really going to happen.

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley, feeling his voice break this time.  Aziraphale was arranging candles, not looking at him.  “Aziraphale, you’re really going to do this?”

“I should have done it already.  I see that now.”

“But _why?_  What have I done?”

“What have you done? You’re a demon.  Simply existing is enough.”

Crowley felt as though he had been physically struck.  “What _happened_ to you?” he choked out.

“I was given a little reminder,” said Aziraphale, not sounding sad, a little bright even.  “Crowley, what we had been doing wasn’t natural. Angels and demons are supposed to fight, not—cavort!” __

“What about—what about _us_?  What about the Ritz, and feeding the ducks, and sushi—”

“Frivolity,” said the angel, sniffing.

“It wasn’t frivolity to us, Aziraphale,” said Crowley, trying again to writhe under the ropes, unsuccessfully.  “We—don’t you remember how much you love the earth—the humans—”   _Me,_ he wanted to finish, but couldn’t.

“I see now how it was keeping me from my mission,” said Aziraphale, shaking his head.  “A waste of time and resources.  Once you’re out of the way, permanently, I’ll be able to carry out my orders unheeded.”

“But—we—don’t you remember how we stood together and said _bugger orders_?  About how we helped each other be more than just an ang—”

“Embarrassing,” said Aziraphale.  “I actually argued with the Metatron.  Absurd. And _you_.”  He shook his head again.  “You _did_ have your hooks in me quite deeply, didn’t you?”

“This isn’t you, Aziraphale. Someone’s—messed about with you. They had to have done something—this is wrong.”

“Wrong?  The only thing that’s wrong is the idea that I would ever see you as—as a companion!  And not what you are: A foul, deceptive creature.”

Crowley could no longer look at Aziraphale; he bent his head so he was staring at his own lap. “Aziraphale, you know what they’re going to do to me down there, right?  After what I did?  They’re going to—torture me, with all the creativity they can manage.”  Which was not much compared to a human’s creativity, but the promise of being— _entertainment_ —for everyone in Hell was enough that Crowley had a good idea of what awaited him.

“Then maybe that’ll remind you of your place.” 

Tears were welling in his eyes now, but not even that was enough to extract any pity out of the angel. Aziraphale turned his back on the restrained demon and finished lighting the candles on the far end of the room. “You’re going to regret this, you know,” he said, his voice warbling.

“You’re hardly in a position to be making threats.”

He hadn’t meant it as a threat, he _hadn’t,_ and the despair in his voice would have communicated that to anyone except _this_ Aziraphale, who just saw him as a _thing._

Aziraphale withdrew a spell book and positioned himself in front of the center of the circle, and Crowley whimpered miserably.  “Please don’t do this.”

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, desperate, and said, “Aziraphale, I love you.”

Aziraphale tipped the book open and gave Crowley a cold look.  “Out of all the lies you’ve ever told, that has to be the worst.  Now, please do be quiet.”

And to enforce that, a rag was stuffed in his mouth to gag him.  He couldn’t even listen to the words Aziraphale began to read from the book because he was listening as his heart snapped and fell into a million pieces. The sensation of salty streams running down his face began to fade as he felt ice-cold hands prying him from his corporation. 

This was it, then.  If Aziraphale had killed his body, he might have had a chance to possess someone, or take over the body of an animal, or wait to be summoned, but an exorcism would send him straight into the deepest depths of hell.  They would never let him out again, he knew, after what had happened, and the rest of his existence was going to be chains and four brick walls or a rack or something worse, and not in the arms of the one being in existence he knew for certain that he loved, the same arms that had carried him deliberately into this nightmare, and Crowley found himself wishing that Aziraphale had decided to dunk him in holy water instead, because then the pain would just be over, but it kept going, on and on, each heartbeat pushing  shards into his veins from his broken heart with each word of the exorcism Aziraphale read, and then he felt himself violently torn from his physical body and being pulled helplessly down, burning darkness pressing down on him.

* * *

Crowley was right, both about what awaited him in Hell and about the fact that Aziraphale would regret it, although the latter did not come to light until Aziraphale finally managed to think on his own again, and realize the horror of what he had done, centuries after the fact, when Crowley was already long lost in the pits of Hell.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE SAD WAS TOO MUCH FOR ME SO I WROTE PART 2
> 
> on tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/134310374205/i-made-everybody-sad-with-this-fic-so-i-made-a

It happened one day when Aziraphale tasted wine.  He couldn’t remember exactly why he was drinking—he hadn’t tasted wine besides communion wine in years, because alcohol was frivolity.  Maybe he was feeling a bit rebellious that day.  It was just a small glass.

As soon as the taste of fermented grapes hit his tongue, it all came rushing back to him.

He remembered the first time he had ever tasted this, and it was with a demon.  He remembered the first time he had ever blacked out from getting too drunk—and Crowley had kept him safe.  He remembered getting drunk in the back room of his shop, across from the demon, making plans how to stop the apocalypse.  He remembered sharing a bottle of wine with that same demon on a picnic blanket in front of the duck pond, reveling in the fact that they were both still alive.  He remembered a bottle of wine, brought into his shop and set on the end table, forgotten.

And Crowley’s smooth laugh. And his honey-yellow eyes.  And his soft smile.  And his dark, oaky smell, like a fine brandy.  And the look of utter betrayal on his features, and the desperation in his voice as he begged Aziraphale not to—

The wine glass fell from his hand and shattered on the floor, just as his teacup had centuries ago. 

Aziraphale clapped his hand to his mouth, shock and anger blooming inside him, hundreds of years too late.

He was shaking now, shaking with disgust that anyone could convince him to do such a horrible thing, and not realize how horrible it was until this late after it had happened, and sadness most of all—an overwhelming sense of regret and loss.

Because how could he have not seen it?  That _Aziraphale, I love you_ had been far from a demon lying in a last-ditch attempt to save his life.

The fury ignited inside of him, then.

* * *

Somewhere on the planet, there is a warehouse where International Express parcels sit when they are not in transit.  In the back of this warehouse, there is a small section of packages that have been forgotten because they have been pushed to the back, never to see the day they arrive at their intended destination.  Among them is a card from a grandmother to a child who thought her birthday had been forgotten; a wilted plant, dead and brittle, stamped OVERNIGHT that would have won a contest had it grown to be healthy and green; a box for a bored housewife that ended up turning to more destructive hobbies when it never came; and there is also a crown and a set of old-fashioned scales.  There used to be a sword, but it is gone now.

* * *

No one would dare make jokes about Aziraphale’s rank as a Principality after this; they would recognize the terrifying force that could be unlocked with his anger, the power of an angel who could march into the underworld against orders and survive to reach this, one of the deepest layers of Hell, the lake of fire.

Aziraphale was covered head-to-toe with the blood of demons who had not given him information fast enough. His once-polished and shining armor was now corroded and dull from days of exposure to the caustic, sulfurous gasses erupting from the cavernous floor, and from the filth he had accumulated.

His wings were stark white against the fiery blackness around him, drawn open in defiance. Lesser demons tripped over each other to get out of his way.  Greater demons watched him with some amount of unease, wishing someone else would see to it to get rid of him, noting the holy weapon in his hand, and thinking of how much it would hurt.

Aziraphale’s feet thumped loudly in the silence as he made his way to the edge of the lake of fire. He peered in.  He could hear the crackle of the flames below him, faintly. It was a decent drop to reach the surface.  He folded his wings and swooped like a hawk.

A dark figure blurred in his peripheral vision, and he pulled up.  An enormous body was in the hot air with him, the wind whistling through its stained and broken feathers, its horns gleaming burnt black in the infernal light cast by the fire being vented towards them.

“Moloch,” said Aziraphale.

Moloch matched his wingbeats to the Principality’s, and gave a bovine low.  “Guardian of the Eastern Gate, you’ve been causing all this trouble? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Aziraphale held his sword at the ready.

“I don’t know what it is you’re after, but we can’t have you running around down here unimpeded.  It isn’t proper.”

“Nothing about this place is proper.”

“It’ll give people ideas.”

“A dangerous thing for anyone to have.  Please stand aside.”

Moloch turned his head so that one sideways-facing eye could peer at the lake of fire.  “You’re trying to pull someone out, aren’t you?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“No one has ever managed that.”

“That’s because _I_ haven’t tried it yet.  Stand aside please.”

Rage contorted on Moloch’s face.   “Arrogance is unbecoming of you.”

“Would a sword through your head be unbecoming of you, I wonder?”

“You would not dare stand before me and challenge me to a fight.”

Aziraphale gripped his sword.

“Aziraphale, why don’t we make a deal?  If you turn around and leave, no questions asked—”

The idea burned white hot in his brain, which violently rejected it, and Aziraphale’s sword buried itself up to the hilt in his head, spurting out the other side.  As his wings gave a final spasmodic jerk, his body slid off the sword.

Aziraphale watched as he fell and landed in the lake of fire, sizzling and sinking slowly, flames writhing over him.  He wondered if it was possible for a demon to die in Hell at all.

He wondered if it was possible for an angel to die in Hell.

The air was quiet again, except for his own increasingly tired wingbeats and the rumbling and oozing of the lake of fire.  He sheathed his sword, and waved his hand so that a long crook appeared in his grip.  He spread his wings and dived down, flying parallel to the surface of the lake, wincing at the occasional flame that licked at him.  It was eerily peaceful, but Aziraphale knew what was under the surface.

He sensed what he was after, faintly, and plunged the crook in, trawling around.  He felt it catch on something solid, then wrapped two hands around it and pulled upwards with all his strength.

Part of an arm emerged from the surface, the crook hooked in its elbow pulling it up, strings of black tar stretching from it as it breached, but it slipped and fell back in.  Aziraphale cursed and dove, throwing the staff aside, and plunged his hand into the surface, feeling the flames and hot tar clinging to his arm, but he endured it.

His hand was around someone’s wrist.  He pulled, and was half afraid he would pull the arm completely off, but felt a solid weight come up with it.  He beat his wings carefully, with as much force as he dared, aware that if he let his wings skim the surface they might be gummed up with tar and leave him stranded here.

The tar was sucking at Crowley’s arm like a greedy animal, pulling him down, but Aziraphale hauled mightily, and soon a head broke the surface, lolling absently.

“There we are,” cooed Aziraphale.

A few more moments of pulling his entire body was free of the lake, droplets of liquid flame flicking off his foot as Aziraphale lifted him up.  Crowley’s body was hot, coated with a thick layer of sludge, and as Aziraphale hugged him close to himself with one arm the tar oozed down his armor.  He couldn’t feel Crowley’s chest moving with breath, but that wasn’t saying much.

He beat his wings as quickly as he could, carrying them both away from the lake and onto solid ground. Aziraphale found a spot that was out of the way, behind a rocky outcropping where it would probably be safe to pause for a few moments.  He set Crowley down gently, his withered body limp in his hands.

The demon’s eyes were seared shut, and he gave no indication that he heard as Aziraphale said his name. His body began to heave violently, and Crowley finally moved, then, to put his hands on his neck, and muffled sounds escaped from his blackened lips.

Aziraphale understood, then. He helped Crowley hunch over, then moved behind him and landed one solid blow on his back.

Crowley let out a violent cough, and the tar that had been clogging his lungs came leaking out of his mouth. Aziraphale held him as he wretched, emptying himself, and then lay there, exhausted, breathing raggedly.

“Is that a bit better now?” said Aziraphale.  The demon nodded faintly.

Aziraphale gathered him up, feeling his ribcage expanding underneath the layer of ooze he was still coated with, and shot off towards the surface.

* * *

Crowley passed out as soon as they left Hell’s threshold.  Aziraphale had to wrangle his limbs and keep him upright as he cleaned him, scraping the tar off and ruining his shower, and slid a hand over his burns to heal them.  If the higher-ups ever thought of saying anything about what he had done, they probably never worked up the courage after seeing what he was capable of.

Crowley was still unconscious, but being fresh and whole, he looked much more at peace.  Aziraphale carried him into the bedroom and laid him on the bed, arranging him with all the gentleness he wished he had given him the last time they had seen each other, pulling the blanket up over him. He reached down to press a light kiss on his forehead, and caught the faint smell of brandy.

Aziraphale was a good soldier, because a good soldier would never leave someone they cared about behind.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There have been demands for a fluff-filled part 3. I might do it if there's enough people who want it. If you've read this far and want more consider leaving a comment? Thanks :)


End file.
